Ever since I found a copy of Neon Nightlife II with the first edition cover in the used CD rack for $2, I’ve tried to stop by Discus Tech in Havenbrook on the relatively infrequent occasions that I pass through town. I found it the first time by mistake while cruising around trying to find an Arby’s and a Best Buy, in that order, on the 5-lane megatraffic artery in the middle of town just off the freeway.

Thing is, I’ve almost never been able to find it since.

The road it’s on is a fustercluck, with left turns being nothing more then the fevered dream of a madman and pushy drivers anxious to make it too or from the highway always gnawing at your bumper. It’s hard enough to turn right at a light, much less anywhere else, and I always seemed to lose the store while trying to scan the roadside and drive at once. Turning around multiple times when I missed it was a pain and often not in the cards, timewise.

So when I found the shop again, I thought I’d mention it to the guy behind the counter. After all, if the place was going to stay afloat in this era of MP3 and cloud computing, it needed more than just me buying some music whenever I was in town (rarely) and could get through the door (rarer still).

“You know, your shop is really hard to find even when you know where it is,” I said.

“I’m not surprised.” The clerk lowered the sheet music he had been reading and gazed at me, white eyebrows over bifocals. “Only people who truly need this store can find it, son.”

“What?” I said.

“You must be meant to be here, to make some great purchase or otherwise shift the path of your life onto a new tangent. You can’t find the shop otherwise. Think of it like Neverending Story rules.”

I bit my lip. “Really?” It was true that Neon Nightlife II with the first edition cover was pretty awesomely, life-changingly cool (well, if you’re into that sort of music).

“Either that or this place is just really easy to miss,” the clerk said. “Take your pick.”

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